The Thin Men

More male runners than you think suffer from eating disorders

Steve is a runner with a resume few wouldn’t envy. His personal bests range from a 29:00 10K to a sub-2:20 marathon, and he’s active in the sport in both administrative and volunteer capacities. Steve’s acquaintances say that although his hell-bent-for-leather training regimen and competitive drive are ferocious, he’s one of the more ebullient personalities on the road-race circuit.

Inside, Steve (who asked that his real name not be used) wages a different battle. His first steps of every day lead not out the door for a training run, but to the bathroom scale. The numbers that bounce back at him determine what sort of day Steve will have—as much as will the quality of that morning’s jaunt or the afternoon’s speed session.

“I don’t know when I realized something wasn’t right,” says Steve. “I had a rough time in college, a lot of depression for no apparent reason. Unfortunately, trying to take control included taking control of food. I slowly ended up where I am now—obsessed.”

Steve reveals behaviors such as buying groceries and seeing how many days he can keep them on hand without eating them (and, he hopes, end up throwing them out). He’ll put junk food in his car to tempt himself; he “wins” by not eating it. When hunger strikes he’ll fill up on water.

At five feet, eight inches, Steve maintains a weight of 120 pounds, always hoping to “drop a couple more.” Several years ago, when he was sidelined by an injury, he crosstrained fervently and limited his daily food intake to a single spartan meal of greens.

“I guess by doing these things I’m only setting myself up to lose,” Steve admits. Yet he has never sought help for his behaviors and feelings; indeed, only a few close friends know about them. For now, Steve accepts that. “I usually just kind of do what I do and don’t think about it much. I’ve come to realize that’s me. I can live with that.”

Male runners like Steve are probably not as rare as you think. Most likely you know at least one woman runner with a blatant eating disorder, but among men, attitudes and practices like Steve’s are veiled by intense shame and masked by competitive exploits. Although ignorance, denial and rationalization are characteristic of anyone with disordered thoughts or behaviors surrounding food and weight, in males these are amplified by theissue of gender.

Who suffers?

Approximately eight million people in the U.S. have a clinically defined eating disorder. According to most sources, about 10% are men, but experts universally agree that percentage is probably higher. A research project conducted by the NCAA revealed that the sports with the most male participants with eating disorders were wrestling and cross country.

Several factors contribute to the murkiness of available data. One is that an eating disorder is typically perceived as a feminine problem. “Men are hesitant to seek medical attention for a disorder they fear will be seen as a girl’s disorder or a gay guy’s disease,” wrote Arnold Andersen, M.D., author of “Males With Eating Disorders” (Brunner/Mazel, 1990), in the September 1995 issue of Psychiatric Times. (Anderson notes that 21% of males with eating disorders are gay.)

A second reason problems fail to come to light follows from the first: A lack of suspicion among the runner’s closest allies—friends, coaches, family members, even medical professionals—even when signs that would implicate a female are manifest. For example, it’s socially acceptable for a man, especially a super-active one, to wolf down a huge amount of food; few would suspect he might be bulimic. Similarly, a guy who never seems to eat anything might be called “picky,” but rarely draws attention to himself as a result. And one of the cardinal signs of anorexia in women—irregular or absent menstrual periods—obviously doesn’t apply to men.

According to Andersen, “Males with eating disorders have been relatively ignored, neglected, or dismissed because of statistical infrequency or legislated out of existence by theoretical dogma.” In plain terms, most people don’t bother to consider the possibility that their male training partner, that lean, mean racing machine, may in fact be in desperate need of intervention.

Poke around among runners you know, and almost everyone will have a story about some guy with “weird eating habits.” Seldom, however, would the fellow in question be thought to have a true eating disorder. Even when a real problem is suspected, action is seldom taken. In soliciting personal accounts for this article, I heard from more than a few concerned wives, girlfriends and parents of affected men. “My husband can barely pull the skin an inch away from his ribs,” one woman wrote. “Yet he thinks he’s fat. I know disordered thinking when I see it, and when he looks in the mirror, I’m sure he sees an obese man staring back at him.”